


Polonius in an Empty Room

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Angst, Community: dsc6dsnippets, Eavesdropping, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Prompt Fic, Snippets, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver hears things in the theatre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polonius in an Empty Room

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [ds-snippets](http://ds-snippets.livejournal.com), for the prompt "Maybe I'll see you in flagrante delicto" (Jonathan Coulton) in a round of snippet-tag.

Sometimes, alone in the theatre, Oliver fancies he hears ghosts: actors’ voices shaping their hundred individual renditions of the same immortal texts; the cough-rustle-hum of audiences past.  It’s comforting, if a trifle lonely, to be surrounded by these echoes of ephemeral art.  Tonight he’s pacing in the aisle, chewing over Hamlet’s blocking in the third soliloquy, when a moan echoes through the theatre, freezing him in his tracks.  


Not a ghostly moan.  Entirely earthy.  A sound of urgent pleasure that grabs Oliver by the cock and sends hot shivers through him.  He knows that beautiful voice intimately, has heard it soar with passion and drop with grief, ring with anger and laughter.  He would recognize Geoffrey’s voice in his sleep; will know it when he’s a little old grey head sans teeth, sans everything; when he’s in his grave.

Geoffrey’s breathless laughter makes Oliver’s head spin like an overdose of champagne until the sound abruptly ends in a long, low groan, ornamented by Ellen’s giggles.  Oliver covers his heated face with his shaking hands.

These are the opposite of ghosts: vital, overheated lovers, tussling in the crawlspace under the stage that would be Ophelia’s grave if the trapdoor were open.  Oliver dimly remembers being that young: everything a matter of life and death and constant yearning for _more_ and _now._   He even made love in a storage closet or two, himself, in his time.  What he can’t recall are the sensations, the feelings.  How it felt to be so alive.  To be so wanted.

Treading as lightly as he can, Oliver mounts the stage.  He stretches out on the floor, his ear resting on the locked trapdoor.  Lets the sounds of Geoffrey and Ellen’s passion vibrate through him as he slides his hand into his trousers.


End file.
